


Drawn on in Pink

by wrabbit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Domestic, Established Relationship, Held Down, M/M, Tickling, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:08:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the day of the royal wedding. Greg has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawn on in Pink

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [vtn](archiveofourown.org/users/vtn)! All further mistakes my own.

Mycroft woke up from a light doze in his favorite armchair to the feeling of fingertips tracing down his forearm. He squinted one eye open in the sunbeam that had moved to cross his face at eye level and came face to face with Greg Lestrade, who moved to stand in between him and the sun. A belated shiver curled up his spine as Greg maneuvered to sit himself sideways in Mycroft's lap and kiss him. "Good morning," Mycroft said, more awake, but dazed when Greg released him.

"Afternoon," Greg corrected him with a grin. He had one forearm braced on the back of the chair above Mycroft's head, the palm of the other conforming familiarly to the curve of Mycroft's ribcage over his waistcoat. Mycroft's left hand rested against his back. 

His limbs sleepy and relaxed under Lestrade's uncomfortable perch on his lap, Mycroft blinked around himself, orienting himself in the time and space he had woken in, noting the quality and angle of the light, the dusty sunbeams, mid-morning tea still laid out at the table. 

"Got to go, actually," said Greg.

"What? Already?"

"Just came to say 'Hi.'"

Mycroft humphed, his fingers toying with the back of Greg's shirt. "My assistant should be here for me soon," he said. 

"The one in the other room? I asked her if I could wake you first." 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and hummed in acknowledgement. "Do you plan to be home at a reasonable hour?" he asked. 

Greg levered himself to his feet with difficulty, shrugging. He was reaching for his coat. "You know," he said, vaguely. 

"I only ask because I would like to know whether your dinner should be kept warm or cold tonight." He paused, watching Greg pull on his coat. "Not frozen, I hope. Is this an extended goodbye?"

"How about hot?" Greg asked. He leaned down for a final peck to Mycroft's mouth. 

"Oh? Ambitious." 

"Very," Greg said, his lips twisted in an amused smile. He straightened his coat collar and lifted his chin, performing himself. "Count on it, Mr Holmes." 

Mycroft hummed doubtfully from the chair, allowing himself to smile wryly through his disbelieving mask.

"I plan to fake my own death if Sherlock materializes for any reason today. I intend it to be very, very dull."

Mycroft laughed.

\----

 

Cooking dinner later that night, Mycroft heard Greg come in, but was still startled by the hand that stroked unexpected down the line of his back and waist, coming to rest on his hip. Greg moved into his space, chin resting briefly on Mycroft's shoulder where he stood at the kitchen counter. "I hate your brother," he said and stepped back, hand falling away. 

"You're early," Mycroft commented. He glanced back, seeing Greg had changed into faded jeans and a light grey t-shirt after showering. "He can't have misbehaved too badly."

"No," Greg admitted, continuing, "there's more than one way to be a git."

"My brother, darling though he can be, is masterful in that coveted respect." Mycroft tasted a small amount of the wine. "Was it the badge this time?"

"No." Greg's hands rested low on Mycroft's waist from behind. A puddle of heat spread inside his stomach at the deliberate touch that was more than just the warmth of the cabernet he had just swallowed. "Just a million texts inside of five hours." 

"What does he talk about?"

"Nothing. Really nothing." 

Greg leaned back against the counter beside him and pulled his phone from his pocket. " _I know what you're doing_ ," he read in a monotone voice. " _Stop and find me a case.; No, you don't.; Yes, I do. If you want to do something useful today, text John and tell him to hurry.; I can guess what you're doing. Sulking uselessly on a couch, so there is no way you could have any idea what I'm doing at the Yard.; Tell John.;You tell him.; Can't._ And so on." 

"What were you doing?" Mycroft asked, curious.

"What?" Confused, Greg looked up from his phone.

"At the Yard."

"I think you're missing the important part of this story."

Mycroft shrugged. 

"Working," Greg answered the question.

Mycroft pretended to ignore him, pulling plates out of the cupboard to make ready for the cuts of lamb on the stove.

"Fine. Watching the royal wedding in the break room."

Reaching into the oven, Mycroft laughed at Greg's petulant tone, surprised by the quickness of his admission.

"Hey. Shut up." Mycroft could feel Greg's eyes on him as he served both plates with identical portions. "He's trying to make me paranoid. I'll bet you Sherlock doesn't even know what day of the week it is and thought he could catch me smoking or wanking or something."

"He wants your attention." 

"Well, I suppose he does this to you, too," Greg said, resigned to share the burden. He toyed with his phone, deleting messages.

"No." Sherlock had much more perverse and frightening ways of seeking his own attention, none of which included texting. "Not exactly."

Greg didn't say anything, seeming to catch Mycroft's desire that he not pursue the subject when no explanation followed. "Here. Let me carry some of this."

Lifting the cabernet Greg filled Mycroft's glass with rather more than Mycroft's usual small serving of wine. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, sipping from his water glass. Greg filled that as well when he eventually set it down. "Don't use the toilet tonight," he said. 

Mycroft's eyebrows twitched up at the casualness of the order. 

"Is that what you want," he stated the question, his voice wry and flat. He felt himself begin to blush as he met Greg's long look and saw that it was amused, underneath a heavy current that was knowing, calculating. Mycroft could almost follow Greg's thoughts in that gaze - already considering when it would be time to strike based on what he had seen Mycroft drink since he had arrived home. Until then, the wait, the awareness of Greg monitoring him, his plans for him, would itch under Mycroft's skin. 

Greg hummed lightly in agreement, his mouth full. 

"How was your afternoon?" he asked when it became clear that Mycroft was not going to offer an objection.

"Hm?" Mycroft's mind was elsewhere.

"Your afternoon, after your nap?" 

"Well," Mycroft answered slowly, bringing himself back down to focus on cutting his meat into pieces. "Quiet, like your own. Excepting Sherlock, of course."

"You weren't taking advantage of the occasion?"

"I have been, for the past few weeks, but today the entire country was occupied. Even the spies."

Greg's fork picked through the mixed greens on his plate, looking for currants. "Were you invited?" 

"Goodness, no," Mycroft said, swallowing. "I believe Sherlock might have been," he decided it was safe enough to comment.

"No way." 

"He's making a name for himself. He'll regret it, soon enough."

Greg shook his head, doubting Sherlock's famousness, ruing his self-sabotaging misanthropy or perhaps just his preference to eat white toast and wind up Lestrade from his couch over attending the wedding of the decade. Mycroft smiled to himself at Greg's romanticism. He refilled his own water glass when it reached the half-way point. "Would you have liked to attend?"

"No," Greg answered immediately. "I wouldn't have been appropriate after one look at you in morning dress." 

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and covered his full mouth, laughing. 

"There would have been scandal," Greg continued with a wide grin. "I couldn't possibly have let you leave the house like that." 

"Allow me," Mycroft said quietly in the ensuing quiet, topping up their wine glasses. 

He swallowed as Greg sat back with his glass, crossing his legs and smiling benignly under Mycroft's stare. Anticipation made itself known as a light feeling in his stomach, a daze in his head again. He was aware of his attention slipping down from Greg's eyes to his fingers curled around the stem of the glass he held resting on his leg, aware also that Greg would have noticed. That he didn't need to outwardly react to having observed Mycroft revealing himself, that they both knew, made it all the more damning. 

Greg sipped from his glass casually, watching Mycroft turn his attention back to his plate. "QI's on tonight," he remarked. 

"Is it?" Mycroft looked up, disappointed.

"Want to take this to the other room in a few minutes?" Greg glanced at the bottle of wine. 

"If you like."

Greg went ahead into the sitting room as Mycroft finished cleaning up the dining room table and rinsed their dishes. He read an email and a text from his personal assistant on his phone, listening to the show start in the other room.

Greg patted the couch beside himself and lifted his arm out of the way when he turned and saw Mycroft standing in the doorway. Mycroft felt tension coiling in his spine again as Greg slid his hand around his waist, settling in for the show with his socked heels on the coffee table. The second episode was a repeat, and halfway through he sat up, setting their wineglasses on the table and leaning back in to nuzzle at Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft tipped his head back, sighing as Greg rubbed his nose behind his ear, beginning to kiss the line of his neck down his hairline. He started slightly as a warm palm came to rest on his belly and slid up to his chest. Greg continued working away across his neck with lips and teeth, methodically edging under the collar he was tugging down with one finger. Mycroft's fingers clenched rhythmically in the back of Greg's shirt and his own trousers, wrinkling them as stubble scraped the skin of his neck unevenly and teased patches of it into hypersensitivity. "Greg," he gasped.

"Hmm?"

Mycroft said the only thing he could think of in the moment, "Not here."

Greg leaned back. His arm around Mycroft's waist urged him to stand. Mycroft did so, unsteadily as Greg turned the television off with the remote. His eyes when he turned back to Mycroft were sharp-edged with intent. 

Mycroft took an involuntary step backwards, another when Greg stood, pushing himself up with his hands on his knees. Greg drained his wine glass and placed it back beside Mycroft's empty one. He followed, two or three steps behind as Mycroft turned and began to walk toward their bedroom, hyper aware of Greg's casual, stalking presence just behind him. "How badly do you have to go?" Greg asked when they were halfway up the stairs. 

"Not very."

"I'll have to fix that." Greg's steps quickened and Mycroft hurried, letting himself be chased into an almost-run up to the bedroom. Once there he forced himself to stop and be calm, heart racing on ahead as he turned to meet his pursuer. Greg immediately crowded him backwards into the bed with a wet kiss. Mycroft stumbled as the back of his legs hit the mattress and caught himself on one hand. He turned to crawl and a second surge of adrenaline kicked in his chest as Greg pressed him into the bed with his body, chest against his back, hot breath hitting the side of his neck where Greg tucked his chin. Mycroft shrieked when his sides were pinched once, twice. He couldn't stop giggling with his face buried in the duvet, anticipation making him heady. Greg grinned into his neck, his hands resting still. 

"You ticklish?"

Mycroft panted into the bed, ignoring the rhetorical question and laughed harder, his arm coming down, as his underarm was inspected with a prod. 

"I don't think we've given you enough time," Greg said from on top of him. He forced one hand in between Mycroft's body and the bed at the level of his bladder. The teasing pressure applied there made him aware of the eventual need he would have to expel the wine and water he had been drinking and distracted Mycroft from laughing. "Not to worry," Greg said brightly. "I'll keep you busy." 

"Oh no," Mycroft breathed, trying to lift and pull himself free with his elbows on the bed. He budged himself further up the mattress. 

"Yes." Greg's free hand crawled up Mycroft's side, fingers spidering up his ribs and under his arm. Before long Mycroft was face down on the bed, his arm clamping down ineffectively as Greg's fingers clenched, causing waves of laughter. He was already breathless when Greg sat up on his knees and began removing his belt. 

"What's that for?" Mycroft asked, concerned. He turned on his side and edged away toward the centre of the bed. 

"Nothing," Greg said, throwing it to the side. "I don't need this with you." Mycroft swallowed as he crawled forward on his knees, pushing Mycroft onto his back with one palm spread in the middle of his chest. One finger initiated the attack everywhere Mycroft's arms weren't hugging his torso in a demonstration of how helpless Mycroft was against being tickled by him, eyes tearing up, with his head full of clouds and _please_ and _don't_ and _not just there_. Greg's infiltrating fingers kept coming back with the trajectories of guided missiles to prod under the edge of his underarms, his stomach, pinching his waist and inspiring Mycroft to squeak through his laughter and writhe as fingers continually found routs around the defenses on each side. 

"Here, huh?" 

"Oh _god_ ," Mycroft swore in between squeals. It was too much. He turned away on his side, breathing hard, arms wrapped securely around his waist and wet eyelashes brushing against his cheeks in defeat as he was given a break. Greg's palm squeeze under his arm to press firmly against his belly again. Mycroft sighed and relaxed, his breathing slowing as Greg massaged his bladder. It made him want to squirm, shrink away from the almost-pleasant uncomfortable pressure building low in his abdomen. His erection throbbed as the cupped hand slipped lower to feel him there and Mycroft sighed again, nudging into it.

Greg removed his hand to scrape his fingertips down the side of Mycroft's back, pressing down too firmly to tickle. A few seconds later they fluttered against the side of Mycroft's neck, causing him to huff and curl further into himself as Greg toyed with him like a cat with its paralyzed prey. Greg's fingers worked around the corners and curves of Mycroft's body, touching him in random places – his soles, his ankles, his triceps, his lumbar spine, his temples, encouraging his muscles to relax and ruffling his nerve endings by turns. Mycroft uncurled slowly on his side, shuddering and twitching all over.

"Ah!" Mycroft gasped and pulled his leg away when he was gently tweaked on the back of one thigh. 

"Is your bum ticklish?" Greg asked playfully.

"No," Mycroft said, laughing as he was pinched several times more, high on the back of each leg. 

"Liar." Greg pinched his backside until Mycroft rolled over, feeling his cheeks blush fiercely in embarrassment. He glared at Greg who straddled him with a smug grin. 

Greg surprised him by reaching backwards, fingers digging between Mycroft's inner thighs. A moment later Mycroft's surprise turned into shock when the unexpected feeling invited him to laugh hysterically, reaching automatically for Greg's arms in a fruitless attempt to tear him away from his legs. He kicked at nothing, shrieking as Greg's fingers found and worked a particularly sensitive spot high on the inside of his right thigh. Eyes squeezed shut, Mycroft writhed and fell into silent laughter. "Please!" he caught his breath and cried out, one fist twisted in Greg's shirt. "Not there!" 

Grinning broadly, Greg relented and found a less breathtaking spot to poke at on Mycroft's ribs. "Do you have to piss?"

"Yes!" Mycroft gasped insistently, suddenly aware of his own need.

"Oh dear. Let me help you." He switched back to that cursed spot on Mycroft's thigh for a few more seconds, making him scream with laughter again. His other hand as he turned to see what he was doing was braced on Mycroft's stomach. 

"Oh no." Mycroft moaned when it stopped. The heavy twisting feeling in his bladder remained with him this time, unlightened by the absence of Greg's palm and he squirmed, trying to get away. 

"You're not going anywhere," Greg informed him. Mycroft gasped, unable to catch his breath. He pushed Greg's hand away from his belly once, twice and finally held it back, but still he couldn't stop himself squirming, his hips moving restlessly on the bed without his conscious effort. He yelped as Greg pinched his leg. The hand he wasn't holding— had forgotten about, really, —began to massage his growing erection in his trousers. He pushed up into it automatically, again and again as the imperative urgency in his bladder died down and he was brought to full hardness. "Oh fuck. Greg," he gasped. "Yes. I want— - " 

He flailed, disoriented, as Greg's wrist twisted out of his loose grip and both hands were suddenly around Mycroft's ribs and waist, tickling him roughly. No more equiped to protect himself from his partner's hands, Mycroft begged to be released in between bouts of forced giggling. "Stop that," he complained, rolling to his back as his butt was pinched on one side. Greg's stiff fingers were painful on his ribs and he squirmed away from more than just the tickling as the compulsion to empty his bladder swelled to acute levels. "I can't - I can't hold it like this." 

He gasped in relief when Greg retreated, laughing at him, and the sense of urgency was lessened considerably. "Thank god." He worked on catching his breath again while Greg sat up on his knees.

One hand dove between Mycroft's legs. "No!" Mycroft yelled, helpless to stop Greg's strong fingers from worming directly to the astoundingly sensitive area on his leg. 

He took a breath for a scream that was interrupted before it could start the second Greg found what he was looking for. Greg pressed him into the bed with his other hand on Mycroft's belly as Mycroft curled in on himself, the electric feeling eclipsing even the demands of his bladder. Urine soaked his trousers and Mycroft became aware that he had lost, the tell-tale smell of it rising thick in the air as he pissed in bursts he was incapable of holding back once it had started. 

Greg let go at last and Mycroft groaned in relief and shame, panting and defeated and flat on his back in the middle of a spreading puddle of his own making. He was half-hard somehow, his soaked clothes clinging uncomfortably. He moaned again, hips rising off the bed as Greg's palm touched him over the wet spot on the front of his trousers. "Ah! Wait! I'm going to - I want -" 

"What do you want?" Greg asked, his voice low and gravelly. He straddled him again, pressing their erections together, getting his own trousers wet as he leaned down to cover Mycroft's lips messily with his own.

Mycroft's hands rose from the bed to cling to his hips. "Fuck me," he breathed a demand into Greg's mouth. "Hurry." 

Greg sat up and they struggled with their flies, Greg helping Mycroft to peel his trousers and pants down his hips. He reached for the night table while Mycroft pushed them off the rest of the way and turned over on his knees, arse in the air, still wearing his shirt. He watched as Greg pulled his t-shirt over his head and dropped it with his jeans on the floor before easing the waistband of his boxers over his cock, foreskin fully retracted over the shiny-wet head. He hissed as he spread the still cool lubricant down his cock. "Do you need - " he looked up and started to ask.

"No." Mycroft held the base of his erection in one hand, pressing one cheek to the bed as he restrained himself from rutting against it. "Now, if you don't mind," he complained mildly. 

Greg pushed his legs further apart with his knees. "Sure, are you?" He slid the tip of his cock against Mycroft's hole, wetting him.

"I'm not going to last," he said a second later, breath hitching. Mycroft groaned softly - he pushed back again and Greg slid shallowly past his prostate, one of Greg's hands joining his in pressing his cock to his belly, his hot cheek coming to rest on the curve of Mycroft's spine as he embraced him from behind.

"I'm - " Greg sighed, and his hips stuttered mindlessly forward.

\----

Mycroft was lying on his back on one side of the bed, one hand resting limp on his belly, while Greg collapsed on the other side. In the middle was the wet spot. It was rather big this time. Greg stared at the dark outline of what he had made Mycroft do. 

"Uck," Mycroft complained when he squirmed and it touched his hip, his nose wrinkling. Greg started laughing at him into the pillow and couldn't stop, clutching it in one hand as his eyes began to tear up.

"You're changing the sheets before I fall asleep," Mycroft warned him, yawning. He eyelids fell closed with a tired smile.


End file.
